


parle du loup

by Catallii



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ... in the span of about ten minutes, Enemies to Lovers, Foe Yay, Hand Jobs, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Wall Sex, no beta we die like men, no seriously we're ignoring that one hundred percent, period-typical homophobia? I hardly know her!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catallii/pseuds/Catallii
Summary: Javert manages to catch up with Valjean in the alleys near the north gate of Paris, before he can disappear into the convent.Nothing about the encounter goes as expected.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 12
Kudos: 133





	parle du loup

**Author's Note:**

> *walks into fandom 158 years late with starbucks* WHATS UP, NERDS
> 
> Forever sad the ship name is Valvert and not Javjean. Anyway, please enjoy this, my first-ever smutfic (which is based on a mix of brick and musical and movie canon because ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯). Hover over French text for translation!

* * *

"Un homme est toujours la proie de ses vérités. Une fois qu'il les a admises, il ne peut plus s'en libérer."

_ A man is always prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he can no longer free himself from them. _

\- Albert Camus

* * *

Valjean was a damned fool.

He told himself this as he fled through the rabbit’s warren of twisting alleys that branched away from Paris’ northern walls, Cosette’s hand warm in his. How could he not have suspected the gendarmes would be stopping people at every gate into Paris? He’d known Javert was on his trail; the man was hardly going to sit back and give up the chase after he’d eluded him once, was he? Of course the Inspector would follow him, of course he’d have anticipated his next move; he was as tenacious as a pitbull and twice as canny.

At his side Cosette stumbled, and he hoisted her into his arms, effortly hauling both the child and his valise as they hurried down the shadowed alleyways.

At last they came upon a crossroads, and Valjean cocked his head, listening. The sounds of pursuit were close, and the alleys were getting more and more narrow. He let go of Cosette, sliding her carefully down his leg and depositing her in the shadow of a shallow alcove. This was a dangerous plan, but he could move far faster and more silently if he wasn’t carrying her, and he needed to be sure he wasn’t accidentally taking the both of them down a dead end.

“Cosette,” he said, careful and quiet. “I need – I need you to hide, just for a moment, while I look ahead.”

The child, bless her, had an instinct for when to be quiet. “Is it Madame Thénardier?” she whispered.

“It – yes. Yes, it is Madame Thénardier.” Better for her to think that than know the truth. “Cosette, I need you to look after my valise while I find a better hiding place. Can you do that?” he asked, taking her tiny hands in his own. “It is very precious.” He hoped this would curb her fear of being abandoned, if only a little while. Cosette nodded, grave.

“Yes, papa.”

Valjean smiled, even though his heart ached at the word. “Good girl. I’ll be back in a moment.”

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Javert was, if not in heaven, then somewhere very close to it.

He could _feel_ the iron jaws of the law about to snap shut around the convict’s ankle; the _forçat_ had eluded them for years, but here, at last, lay the end of the line for Jean Valjean.

Time was of the essence however; Valjean was a clever man, cleverer than a tree-pruner turned galley slave had any right to be. Far too clever by half. If there was a way, any way at all for him to escape, then he would find it and, like smoke, would slip right through their fingers. It was Javert’s duty, then, to ensure the trap was so tight there would be no way Valjean could wriggle out of it.

His lips drew back over his teeth in a savage grin.

As they reached a place where the street split in two, Javert slowed momentarily. The left-hand fork was more shadowed and thus more tempting to the convict looking to hide, but the right-hand one led away from the walls of the city, deeper into Paris. Would Valjean choose the option that provided him with more routes of escape? Or would the panic of being chased drive him into the shadows—

From somewhere nearby there came a quiet clattering noise in the still winter’s night; something like a pebble accidentally kicked loose.

“This way!” Javert dashed down the right-hand fork. The sound had come from close at hand; not exactly _down_ the street, but perhaps the next over – it was hard to tell, with how the sound echoed off the tall, stone walls of the buildings the alley threaded its way past. If he could circle around, he thought, he stood a good chance of cutting 24601 off.

Behind him, the gendarmes he’d been commanding tried their level best to keep up, but Javert did not care – or perhaps did not even notice – as they started to lag behind. He came to a fork and took another right on pure instinct, the thrill of the chase making his blood sing.

At the end of the alley he rounded a blind corner – and found himself nose-to-nose with Valjean himself.

The man’s snow-white hair was in disarray, his cheeks ruddy from running; his hazel eyes flew impossibly wide. He raised one hand, palm up.

“Jav—”

 _“Valjean,”_ he snarled, raising his cudgel.

Several things happened very quickly. Javert brought his cudgel down, aiming at the convict’s temple; at the same time, Valjean rushed at him, shoving Javert against the nearest wall with his raw, ungodly strength. Stars exploded across Javert’s vision as the back of his head struck the naked stone – his shako having been lost somewhere at the beginning of the chase. The cudgel landed less-than-effectively across the shorter man’s back, and Valjean took advantage of his dazedness, seizing his wrist in an iron grasp and trapping his dominant hand against the wall. The other had ended up pinned between his own chest and Valjean’s, and he seized a fistful of the man’s shirtfront reflexively.

It was at this point that Javert realised the grave error he had committed: he had, in his eagerness, completely outpaced the rest of his men as they chased Valjean down the narrow streets. They were searching the area, true, but he had no idea how far away they might be, and furthermore they would have absolutely no way of knowing which turns he’d taken. 

He bucked, bracing himself against the wall, trying to put space between them so he could manoeuvre – by some miracle he’d held on to his cudgel, if only he could get enough room to swing it – but Valjean simply widened his stance and shoved him against the wall more forcefully, driving the air from his lungs. Javert gasped, intending to call for help, but in this too Valjean was faster; his hand was on Javert’s mouth in an instant.

His fingers twisted in Valjean’s shirt, his spine turning to ice as the full extent of his miscalculation became clear. He was utterly alone with Jean le Cric, the dangerous convict with the strength of ten men, and he _could not call for help._ If Valjean had a knife, he was done for. He was probably done for anyway. He tamped down a shudder.

As if the man could read his very thoughts, he heard Valjean’s voice from somewhere near his ear. “I am not going to kill you, Javert. _Je te le promets.”_

Did the man think him an _idiot?_ He growled low in his throat, twisting against the shorter man’s hold, but his grip was far too strong.

His men were only a few streets away now; he could hear their cries of _trouvez-lui_ and _sors, bagnard!_ – if he could but break free, if only for an instant –

Suddenly, one set of footsteps distinguished themselves from the rest. Someone was drawing closer. Valjean’s eyes locked with his in the gloom.

He struggled, of course, but it was no use; Valjean pressed against him, immobilizing him completely, flat against the wall, his hand covering Javert’s mouth so firmly it would surely leave bruises if he survived – a prospect that seemed vanishingly slim, at the moment. His breaths came short and sharp and almost entirely muffled. The owner of the footsteps took a few hesitant steps into the alley, and Valjean pressed impossibly closer. His hand against Javert’s mouth and the sheer _bulk_ of him pressed against his chest made it hard to draw a full breath; Javert felt himself grow light-headed.

 _Ah,_ he thought, only half coherent. So this was how Valjean meant to kill him: by simply crushing the life out of him, a stone’s throw away from help. Dimly he registered a yell, somewhere far off, and the footsteps stopped. He felt his shoulders start to sag as the fight bled from him – not for lack of will, but lack of air. 

Suddenly, Valjean drew back. The hand on Javert’s mouth receded by inches, enough for him to take a greedy gulp of air.

The footsteps had gone; the owner must have been called away by the shouting. They were alone once more. Valjean’s eyes were roving over his face.

“I promise you,” he said softly once more, an unhappy downturn at the corners of his mouth.

Could he actually be sincere? The idea hardly merited consideration. … And yet, Javert was still alive.

Conscious of the hand still hovering near his collar, he kept his voice low. “Why?” he asked raggedly. Why had Valjean not killed him yet? What possible benefit in delaying his murder, when pursuit was so close? Was he – was he _toying_ with him, even now?

They were so close he felt Valjean shiver against him.

“I am not the man you think I am,” he said, hushed but fervent, hazel eyes meeting Javert’s once more, and Javert – damn him, _damn_ it all – found himself drawn in by their intensity. “I have been many things, Javert,” said Valjean, “but a murderer is not and will _never_ be one of them.”

… No.

No, this could not be right. It _was_ not.

There had to be some trick to this, some reason he was keeping Javert alive. He _refused_ to be a pawn in the convict’s game. He jerked once more, trying to shove Valjean away – anything to get the man off him – and as he twisted, trying to find leverage, one of Valjean’s legs somehow slipped between both of his—

Javert froze, breath caught in his throat, as a sudden heat jolted its way up his spine. His cock twitched at the friction.

Valjean had gone stock-still as well, his breathing heavy and loud in the sudden stillness. His eyes were dark, pupils so wide in the mid-light the irises practically disappeared.

He knew, Javert realized. He’d _felt_ it.

Valjean’s weight shifted onto what Javert knew to be his dominant leg, but his hands remained tightly grasping Javert’s wrist and the collar of his overcoat, as though he wasn’t sure whether to bolt, or… 

“Just.” Valjean’s breath caught. He seemed startled at the sound of his own voice, as though he hadn’t been planning to speak. He drew a trembling breath, licked his lips, leaning in towards Javert by degrees without seeming to realise it. “Just let me g—”

With a fearsome snarl, Javert surged forward and covered Valjean’s mouth with his own. _Never_ , he meant to say with this kiss. _I will never let you go, do you understand? You are_ **_mine_** _, 24601—!_

But apparently his meaning hadn’t gotten across, because instead of quaking Valjean made a muffled sound of surprise, and then he was kissing him back, changing the angle to press his lips more firmly against Javert’s. The hand that had previously been covering his mouth moved to push aside the collar of his overcoat; Javert shuddered once more at having a convict’s hand so near his throat, and not just any convict but _Valjean_ – but he could do nothing about it, immobilised as he was; instead, he fed all of his frustration and anger into this moment, this kiss that should not be happening.

He bit down on Valjean’s lip, hard, and the coppery tang of blood burst onto his tongue. Valjean jerked backwards, free hand rising to his mouth reflexively, but Javert’s hand in his shirt kept him from retreating – each trapped by the other. He chased Valjean’s mouth with the same fervour he’d poured into hunting the man himself, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip, smearing it with Valjean’s own blood. Valjean gave a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry, and Javert pressed the advantage, pushing his tongue against the other man’s. A second leg found its way between Javert’s own.

Valjean’s body was a bright line of heat against the dark and cold, his hand pulling at Javert’s cravat now. It was overwhelming; he was far too close. He was not yet close enough. What had started – at least in Javert’s mind – as a battle for control, a way to reassert dominance, became tinged with something desperate, _needy._

Valjean broke away, and Javert almost protested reflexively at the sudden absence – only to choke on a moan as Valjean pressed a slow kiss to the underside of Javert’s jaw. Every last rational thought finally deserted him; the world narrowed to the lips on his skin, the hand clamped like a vise around his wrist, the fingers loosening the knot on his cravat. 

“Valj…” the words staggered to a stop as the shorter man brushed his lips, inch by inch, along Javert’s jaw to the soft skin just behind his ear. He arched into Valjean, gulping lungfuls of the sharp winter air, feeling suddenly lightheaded. “Val—” he tried again. He managed to pull his hand free from Valjean’s shirtfront, and seized his upper arm in an iron grip. Valjean shivered, pressing himself flush against him, and –

The remaining air left Javert’s lungs; Valjean was just as hard as he was. For the life of him, Javert could not have said whether shame or satisfaction dominated in him at that realization.

But he had no time to think further on it. Valjean pulled his cravat free, and then his teeth scraped gently against the side of Javert’s neck, too gently to even be called a bite. Then his lips closed over the same spot as Valjean sucked at it, pressing the flat of his tongue against his skin.

Javert rocked his hips against Valjean’s; he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to. There was a breathless, whining sound in the air and he realized with a rush of mortification that he was the one making it. 

“Javert,” Valjean panted against his skin. “You have no idea – how long I—” The last of his sentence dissolved into a strangled _‘God!’_ as Javert moved his hand from Valjean’s bicep to splay at the small of his back. 

Could this be true? Had Valjean been thinking of this, desiring it? All this time, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when he’d looked at Javert, had he been thinking of pressing him up against a wall – of kissing him? He had a sudden vision of making his weekly report to Monsieur le Maire, only to end up bent backwards against the man’s desk—

A sudden clatter broke the relative quiet, loud as a gunshot to Javert’s ears. He started, and Valjean flinched in his grip as though he’d been struck. His cudgel had slipped from his nerveless fingers and fallen to the flagstones. The effect on Javert was like being doused with a bucket of ice water; the world pulled abruptly into focus as he locked eyes with Valjean again. The man’s eyes were wide, his breathing ragged; he looked thunderstruck. For a moment they stared at each other without moving, as the snow eddied around them in the moonlight.

Javert’s years as a prison guard and then a police officer had made him exceedingly good at identifying when people were about to bolt, and Valjean – Valjean was about a second away from attempting to do so, he realised.

_No, you don’t. I’m not finished with you._

The hand on the small Valjean’s back grabbed a fistful of his coat; his other – now freed – found the nape of his neck, tangling in his snow-white hair. Javert clutched the shorter man against him and kissed him again; Valjean let out something like a whimper, then melted against him, both hands pressed against Javert’s chest.

This kiss was much softer than the first, but somehow all the more maddening for it: Valjean’s lips, his whole _body_ was pliant against Javert’s own. The heat that had fled like a receding tide when he’d dropped his cudgel came rushing back, pooling in his stomach and dripping lower. His cock hung heavy and throbbing against the fabric of his trousers. He pressed one leg deliberately between Valjean’s thighs and pushed up, swallowed his gasp with another kiss as Valjean arched against him.

Valjean’s hands ran down his chest to the plane of his abdomen; one trailed even lower, thumb brushing tentative and feather-light over the ridge of his hip bone. Javert whined helplessly into Valjean’s mouth. There was a feeling in him like – he did not know how to describe it. It was like the feeling he would get on those hot August days in Toulon, when a storm was building, just before it broke. A promise of thunder in the air. His hand moved from the nape of the man’s neck to cradle his jaw as he rocked up against Valjean again, felt his cock twitch in response. He wanted suddenly to taste every inch of him; it was no longer enough merely to kiss him, not by half.

“Valjean, I—” he bit off a groan as Valjean’s hand settled more firmly on his hip. “I need—” he didn’t know how to articulate it; he barely knew what it was he _wanted_ to articulate. He slipped the hand that had previously been grasping Valjean’s greatcoat underneath it, running his hand up the other man’s waist, and Valjean inhaled raggedly. 

Valjean’s forehead was nestled in the crook of his neck, his breaths sharp and shallow on Javert’s skin, and his fingers were moving, fumbling with the fastening of Javert’s trousers, undoing them, and then – _oh –_ then those fingers were on his cock. Javert could not stop himself from crying out as Valjean’s thumb brushed across the head. His hands sought out the buttons on Valjean’s trousers instinctively, and they pushed against each other, hands bumping clumsily – and then he was slipping Valjean’s cock free, ghosting his fingers over the tip.

Valjean shuddered, groaned, and wrapped his large hand around the both of them; Javert thrust blindly up into that heat. He _ached,_ and that feeling of _too-much-not-enough_ returned ten times worse than before.

He ran his fingers down Valjean’s length and the other man practically sobbed, grinding against Javert’s hips. Suddenly, not being able to see his face was a torture Javert could not bear.

“Look at me.”

He caught Valjean’s chin with his hand and pulled him up until their eyes met. The heat in his gaze sent a jolt of electricity down his spine that he was entirely unprepared for. Valjean met his stare for all of a second before closing his eyes, lips parted and reddened from kissing, hips stuttering against Javert’s as he came, spilling over both their hands. He looked perfectly undone, like a figure in an oil painting, like a great work of the masters – _better._

The sight of him dragged Javert unexpectedly and inexorably over the edge of his own climax. He bit his own knuckle as he spent into Valjean’s grasp; the sudden pain was the only thing that kept him from crying out as every nerve in his body turned white-hot with pleasure.

And then –

And then the tide that had swept him along finally receded, leaving him shivering in its wake. He tipped his head back against the stone wall as Valjean staggered back from him, tucking himself back into his trousers, a dazed look on his face that Javert knew his own must mirror.

He fastened his own trousers with numb fingers, raised the back of his hand to his lips; under the memory of Valjean’s mouth against his, he could still taste copper.

Speaking of which – the man in question was taking a tentative step away from him, towards the shadows.

“Valjean. Wait,” he made himself call out. He told himself he was not pleased when Valjean stopped at his command. For a moment more all was silent as they regarded each other.

He was beautiful like this, Javert thought, with this hair mussed and the collar of his coat all crooked – _déshabillé._

“Why,” he started. His voice was rough; he swallowed. “I… after I…” It was not enough; the words would not come.

He was taken aback completely when Valjean smiled at him. It was small and sad but no less sincere for it. Javert could not remember him smiling like this in all their time in Montreuil-sur-Mer; not at _him_ , at any rate.

“I am not so vengeful a creature as you think, Javert,” he said softly. “You were doing your duty. I bear no grudge.”

 _“Dieu pardonne tout; les hommes ne pardonnent rien,”_ he challenged. Valjean huffed a laugh – another first.

 _“Peut-être. Mais je te pardonne quand-même,”_ he said wryly. _ “Adieu,  _ Javert.”

And then he was gone, and Javert could not bring himself to stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> Javert: *stumbles from a side alley with a hickey on his neck and blood smeared on his face*
> 
> Javert’s men: ?? ???? ?
> 
> The title of this piece is from a french proverb: "quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue" (lit. "speak of the wolf, and you see its tail" – speak of the devil, essentially). Also, like I said, this is my ~first time~ writing smut, so if you have any concrit, feel free to lay it on me. ;D


End file.
